Do caterpillars know that they would one day turn into butterflies? Is the shrouding of silk a ceremony of ascension, an acceptance of what has come and gone, or merely an impulse-directed suicide? Do they understand, or even bear a slightest awareness of what they bring upon themselves? Perhaps not death but a change nonetheless... are they afraid? Because I am, I am now. I am afraid now as I lay in bed, knowing too late that I've been wrapping myself up with layer upon layer of moments beyond counting. They tangle and twist in my hands, changing me. It's just something I do, a thinker getting caught in thoughts, a dreamer in dreams. Now I am unsure whether I was born to live or born to die.
What if a butterfly retains no memory of its earlier times, emerging from the cocoon as a wild wind fluttering into existence? How mysterious that must be, to have been somebody else despite knowing yourself to be only you? Isn't it always the way of life? For the sane could never remember quite clearly of the storms they've survived. It would kill them to remember, don't they? All that pain, it would turn them into one of us. Those who dance by moonlight.
Still a voice in my head sings to me, a wind-chime, chapel bells demanding devotion. An unknown sky calls out to me in my dreams. I build a cage because I must be free. And dead or otherwise, I hope only to emerge from this chaos in brand new wings. If I'm never born for anything, or for anyone, if the story of my life is never written in the gilded seams of the universe, if I'm never born ready and never will be, at least please tell me... tell me that I was born to fly.
Oh how I wish I've memorized other things than heartbreak by heart. Like how two halves don't always make a whole. How wholeness is sometimes the same as nothingness, like the singularity of heavens that forged themselves into being. But out there, in that darkness between stars, haven't they told you that what goes up doesn't come down? Haven't they told you of a place where memory is a thing yet to happen, and the past is all they look forward for? Beyond the skies that I know, where things don't work quite the same. Perhaps there is hope, perhaps there is home.
For I want to believe, I want to believe in all these miracles. In all the happy endings and the journeys in between. I want to believe in a calm meadow breeze, flowers in bloom, sunlight filtering through autumn leaves, waves of the ocean, the fragrance of rain. I want to believe in slow dancing by starlight, the music that soothes our hearts, your hand holding mine. I want to believe in a love everlasting, a dream that never dies. But most of all, perhaps what I need the most is to just, sometimes, allow myself to believe in me. So, until then...
Written in this book
Stranger in the Night
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